"Yes, it did," he admitted, but he did not say it was because it took him from her.
"Now, isn't that odd," she laughed, "a journey home seems always the longest to me; no train can get me there quickly enough," she added with an extra note of tender patriotism.
When dinner was spread, Trusia seemed pale and depressed as though the anticipated meeting with her unknown fiancé was not fraught with joy. Rallying herself, however, she was soon as much a centre of attraction as a sparkling fountain in a park is to feathered citizens on a sultry summer day.
The wine of Krovitch, unfamiliar to Carter, was quite heady. He felt it coursing through his arteries while his heart beat stronger. In its convivial influence he turned to the jovial Muhlen-Sarkey and touched glasses.
"A short life and a merry one," he said.
"A strong blade and a noble one," replied the elderly noble with unexpected martial ardor. The incident had not escaped the notice of Trusia. She arose, glass held high above her head.
"Gentlemen," she cried, "the King of Krovitch!"
"The King! The King!" came the ready response. Each toaster crashed his glass in token that no less worthy sentiments should ever be drunk from it. When the loyal cries had faded into a ghostly silence, the tall, pale girl spoke again.
"This night, my lords and gentlemen, you go, after two centuries, to call him back unto his own. As you kneel before him, you will hold your sword hilts to his hand in token that at his call, alone, they'll be drawn. Remember, this man is your king, whatever the state in which you find him. Reverence must be shown as though upon his ancestral throne. In full regalia, then, you must present yourselves.
"He may be in rags, but purple never made a king. He may be alone, but royal birth gave him dominion over millions. He may be poor in purse, but is rich in your—in Krovitch's devotion. You must bring him here to-night, guarded with your naked breasts if need be. God save His Majesty!"